


This Type of Emotion

by Sam_the_Skald



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Confusion, First Kiss, Gratuitous use of italics, John Watson Has Feelings, M/M, Not Beta Read, POV Second Person, POV Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock is bored, Sherlock's Mind Palace, johnlock anniversary
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-29
Updated: 2021-01-29
Packaged: 2021-03-15 22:33:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29071836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sam_the_Skald/pseuds/Sam_the_Skald
Summary: The way you want me makes me want you now,The only thing you have to say is... "Wow."My humble contribution to Johnlock Anniversary. <3
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 11
Kudos: 42
Collections: Johnlock Anniversary - January 29th





	This Type of Emotion

**Author's Note:**

> So... I heard [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PNf3pvoYLpE) on the radio and could not get Johnlock out of my head when I heard it. This fic has a lot of firsts for me and was meant to be smut, but I realized it was Johnlock Anniversary and decided to find a good stopping place to get it posted today instead of rushing it. There may be another chapter if I am brave enough. :)
> 
> Thank you for reading!  
> -Sam
> 
> Some Song Lyrics for Ambiance:
> 
> Baby, I'm not even in a gown,  
> I'm just in a t-shirt on the couch.  
> The way you want me makes me want you now,  
> The only thing you have to say is... 
> 
> Make your jaw drop, make you say 'Oh my God', ain't never felt this type of emotion...
> 
> Wow.

It was one of _those_ days. The ones where nothing at all went right. No case, no experiments, no interesting articles to read, not even a comfortable position on the sofa. Everything is dull and wrong and deeply unsatisfying. Like an itch in your mind just out of reach. A physical one, too, if you were being honest - though not a literal itch so much as a... yearning. A need you can’t put a name to and therefore can’t fill. It is positively maddening. About the fourth or fifth time you roll over and huff into the leather, body face down in the sofa cushions in wide odd angles all tangled up in a throw, you simply hope to sleep. At least that passes the time a little faster.

You hear footsteps on the stairs on the other side of the wall and warmth fills your cheeks. _John._ You don’t want him to see you like this, unsteady and disheveled – untidy in body and mind. The tangle of blanket around your limbs make sitting up a puzzle, an impediment to your attempt to at least appear coherent. Frustration takes over, your arms shake with the strain of yanking the offending length of fabric out from where ever it had gotten caught. At first, the noise that issues from your throat is that of disgruntled effort, but then the throw pulls free suddenly from under your hips, rolling you to the side almost like the party trick where they pull the tablecloth out from under a tableful of dining ware. The angry noise quickly turns to that of alarm as you clatter unceremoniously to the rug below.

And so, instead of in a sad lump on the sofa, your yelp brings John dashing down the last few stairs to find you breathless on the floor. You just manage to prop yourself up on your elbows, face flushed and curls fallen in your eyes. With one bent knee leaning up against the sofa and your other leg stretched out straight, it occurs to you much too late that the position is unintentionally provocative. It further does not help that your dressing gown was hiked up your back during the tumble and put your choice of wearing only a t-shirt and pants underneath on full display. Despite obviously not being naked, the posture and long expanse of bare legs in the open air feel nearly as vulnerable.

There is a hesitation, a beat of silence, before John burst helplessly into giggles. How could he not? You must look ridiculous. He moves in closer, leaning down to offer assistance off the floor. All embarrassment aside, you are still glad for his strong arms and steady hands supporting you to your feet. The warmth in your face doesn’t recede but you manage to roll your eyes through the customary _Alright? Yes, John. Fine._ John then chuckles his way into the kitchen to start the kettle boiling, leaving you deep in thought.

That silence... The moment John paused before reacting. It had a whole conversation, a whole world inside of it. His face, his body, his eyes all had micro expressions that built the framing of new room in your mind palace. Loosely belting your dressing gown back into place, barely even noticing its presence anymore, you collapse into your black armchair and vaguely watch the shape of your flatmate making breakfast while exploring this new information. You play the scene on repeat in your mind’s eye, leaning to one side, elbow on the armrest, resting your mouth against the knuckles of a loosely curled fist, making a fairly striking modern interpretation of The Thinker statue. You begin filling this new Mind Palace room with observations.

John came down the stairs quickly upon hearing your cry of alarm, the thud of hitting the floor. You manage to pull yourself up in time to see him come around the corner – he is alert and ready, full of concern. Ever the doctor with residual soldier habits. He looks you over once, searching for injury. Dark blue eyes stutter and comb down your form again, slower. John’s mouth falls open, the very tip of his tongue appearing for a split second. His body seems to tip forward ever so slightly and a breath exits heavier than usual as if it were squeezed out his lungs. You find this likely, as you see the way the muscles in his arms and chest tense, maybe trying to regain self-control. (Around the third rewind, you admit the flex in his chest is rather pleasing to look at.) This all happens in the span of a heartbeat, maybe two if your pulse was quickened. Then, the moment breaks and John’s face breaks with it into a luminous smile - laughing at your gracelessness, no doubt. Still, the more times you watch it unfold, the more sure you are: 

John Watson _wants you_. 

Other observations from previous (possibly flirty?) interactions, questions to be explored later and ~~fantasies~~ hypothetical situations get filed away in this room next to this one preserved moment. John already has a room dedicated entirely to him, filled with his likes and dislikes, family members, birthday, other inane information like that, plus all the things you enjoy about him. Clearly some rearranging will have to be done so these two rooms connect at some point. What should this new room be called? The “John Sexual Attraction room”? … John Sex room? An involuntary shiver flutters through your body while your mind is far away. You are definitely no longer bored. 

It takes you approximately half minute to realize John is speaking to you from the other room. You catch the question in his tone but none of the words. John turns to look over his shoulder, sees your vacant, confused look, and returns it with an annoyed look of his own. 

“I said: I am headed out to get some fresh air, I think. Should I even bother making you any of this?” He gestured with the spatula to what smell like fried eggs. “When was the last time you ate?” 

You consider giving your typical non-committal answer so you can get back to mental reorganizing but your transport informs you it would indeed like some nourishment by way of a mild cramp on the left side of your belly and a growl. Well then. 

“I’d love some. Thank you.” 

It’s difficult not to stare as you move to sit at the kitchen table. This seems like your normal John – part time GP, part time crime-solving partner and blogger, full time flatmate, lover of earth toned jumpers and a splash of milk in his tea. But there is a whole new lens now, sharpening certain details that didn’t seem important before. You see the involuntary signs all over him: the remnants of a smile linger on his face when you accept the offer of food, how he turned his body at the stove so he won’t have his back to you anymore even though he was focused entirely on the pan, and the way he left your eggs in the pan a bit longer than his own because he knows you aren’t a fan of runny yolks. 

_Oh, no._

That isn’t just attraction. Those behaviors are not just lust. No, this is... _Oh._

Questions flood into your mind with bright chasers of panic because you can’t answer any of them. How long? When? How? Why me? Why? How did I miss it? Me? 

_There’s always something._

There is nothing quite like adrenaline on an empty stomach to wake a body up. Your nerves are all alive and tingling. You can feel the warmth from the hob and the chill of the lino beneath your bare feet, and every hair stands on end with goosepimples at the contrast. Is this what it is meant to feel like? Or is a heady combination of brain chemicals? Both? In whatever case, it is electrifying. 

He turns to the table with two plates, setting one before you and another to your left. Somewhere, in your midst of your revery, he had made toast that sits buttered and lovely next to your (not runny) eggs. You try to convince your transport the sting in your eyes is most definitely not tears and instead perhaps steam from the food. John sits beside you, fork in hand, oblivious to your current emotional renaissance. 

“John...” It is out of your mouth, soft and reverent, before you can edit and his eyes lift to yours. He can tell immediately something is off and nearly drops his fork. 

“Sherlock? What is it? Are the eggs wrong?” 

That does it. Your decades old, carefully erected emotional dam breaks – tears and giggles erupt in equal measure at this sweet creature that may somehow, impossibly, love you. 

“Whoa, hey. What the hell?” John does drop his fork now, alarmed. He stands, but isn’t sure how to help. A tentative hand rests on your shoulder as you shudder and shake your head. _Are the eggs wrong... Adorable, obtuse_ _John._

“Fine. I’m fine.” You manage between sniffles and involuntary huffs that fall somewhere between a sob and a laugh. “Sorry.” 

The hand on your shoulder starts to pull away. Before you can overthink and let the moment slip away, you reach up to clasp your hand over John’s. Very deliberately catching his startled gaze, you give his fingers a gentle squeeze. To your absolute delight, a faint pink blush appears on his face and the tips of his ears. 

“It’s true, then.” Your voice rumbles deeply from your chest, and warmth spreads through your whole body at the source. John’s color deepens, body tense, and a flicker of panic darts through his eyes like a cornered animal. He has realized you know and is trying to find a way to deny it, to escape. It dawns on you that everything will change if it comes out in the open. Standing, you pull his hand down from your shoulder to clasp it tight between your two bodies – you don’t want him to run away from this. 

“Sherlock, I- I mean, you don’t- I...” John stutters, but you shush him gently. Though this should be terrifying, this tidal wave of change that is crashing down, you feel more sure and more steady the longer John’s hand is in yours. You settle into the space in front of him and hold his gaze, beginning a silent conversation between your eyes and his. It’s a skill that came rather naturally early on, and now you wonder if there was a reason beyond John’s baffling good skill of picking up on social cues. Maybe he was especially good at reading _you_? 

_Is this ok?_ Your eyes and head tilt ask, gently squeezing the fingers that envelope his. Fear and guilt spark from John, still in panic mode, _I’m sorry._ You feel a crease form between your eyebrows, _Why?_ His face pinches in a complicated blur of emotion that is difficult to track before his eyes fall, ashamed. Tension stretches on for a handful of seconds before it clicks and understanding falls into place. 

_You were never supposed to know._

Since his gaze is elsewhere, you are forced to speak aloud. “John...” You try to pour a lot into that one syllable: It’s okay; Don’t be scared; Please don’t leave; How exactly did you expect to keep this a secret forever?; What do we do now? 

When John’s eyes find yours again, you notice they are shiny with unfallen tears, but his face is set and stubborn. You like that face, it means he’s made up his mind about something. A spark of excitement flash through your mind and travel down your spine, not even remembering that barely an hour ago you were bored to the point of trying to melt into the sofa. How is it possible for John Watson to get even more fascin- 

In one fluid motion, John cuts off your train of thought by pushing forward and up. Warm, rough lips are on yours. Startled, your eyes widen, but you see his are closed and tense – He's decided to gamble everything on this and you are paralyzed. John ebbs back when nothing happens, and your body aches at the missing warmth. _Do something, quick!_ The surprise holding you in place finally snaps and you swell forward into John’s space, releasing the hand around his so you can slide it around the nape of his neck. This time John stiffens when lips meet but recovers much more gracefully. 

Now that both of you are on the same page, the kiss is able to take hold. It grows in intimacy and intensity. Bodies draw closer, angles change to explore new sensations, soft noises drift into the room. His tongue slides along your bottom lip when your mouth drops open to gasp in a breath. The feeling of breath and tongue mixing seeps a heat into your whole body in waves that threaten to sweep you right out of reality. Shuddering, you struggle to stay ashore where you can capture new information, keep a mental snapshot, be _present_ , in this moment. 

John’s hands settle on your hipbones and pull, gently, tentatively, bringing both your groins together. The noise that escapes your throat is entirely involuntary. You want to hate these reactions for being so very obvious but can’t seem to hate anything at this point, not with John’s arousal and your own pressed so close together. 

Despite your best efforts to exist without it, you suddenly desperately need air. Breaking the kiss to gasp in a breath, you exhale John’s name. Your eyes open a sliver to see him smiling with damp, swollen lips and another moan finds its way out. You take in another breath to explain that normally you are never this wanton, especially not with mere snogging (very intense though it was), but his eyes catch yours and all the words dry up on your tongue. John’s pupils are like black saucers with dark blue rims, and it dawns that he doesn’t seem to mind your eagerness at all – He’s enjoying it, enraptured by it. A smirk pulls at the left side of your mouth, filing that information away for later. 

And so, you both stand there, hip to hip, looking in each other's eyes as a bubble of ‘What now?’ expands into the space. Before the hesitation can grow awkward, you lean to press a soft chaste kiss to John’s mouth and murmur softly against his lips, intentionally dropping your voice low so he can feel it as well as hear it. 

“Take me to bed, John.” 


End file.
